


The First Day of Spring in District 12

by smallwife



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: District 12, F/M, One Shot, Post-Mockingjay, Pre-Epilogue, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-20 03:46:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20221264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallwife/pseuds/smallwife
Summary: A slight glimpse into Katniss and Peeta’s life one year after the war.Katniss makes her first trip into town and Peeta has a surprise for her.





	The First Day of Spring in District 12

It has been one year since the war ended and I killed Coin. It has been one year since a trial was held and I was deemed insane. It has been one year since they shipped me back to 12 with Haymitch, probably because we had outlast our duties as beloved victors and then rebel fire-starters and neither of us wanted to so much as be in the presence of a camera anymore. It has been one year since Peeta planted those primroses in my garden and we began to continue our unspoken agreement to protect each other, in whatever way we both knew how.

I know it has been exactly one year since I got dumped back at 12 because today is undoubtedly the first day of spring. It must be my old hunter’s instincts that tell me this, because when I wake up, nothing is visibly different than the day before. My limbs are stiff, which is a pain, but a good sign for my recovery because it means I wasn’t thrashing around all night, running from dead tributes and Capitol children and other things only I can see. The comforter is halfway off the bed and the sheets are tangled up around my legs, but that’s only to be expected when I am the only one left in this bed for two. Peeta must be downstairs.

That might be the biggest change from a year ago. Though I had hoped I would someday get back the boy with the bread, I knew that things would never truly go back to the way they were. There was just not enough left of us to repair what Snow had broken. I just had to deal with it and move on. I repeated that mantra for months, and I’m sure I started to believe it, or convinced myself I had, because I slowly stopped looking around for him when I woke up screaming. Sure, the only thing that could get me back to sleep was thinking of those nights on the train, but thoughts don’t mean anything, right? After a long phone session with Dr. Aurelius where I confessed my feelings and maybe let on a little too much that he suggested, “Why don’t you just ask him?”

Huh. I knew Dr. Aurelius also helped Peeta, so he wouldn’t be suggesting it if he thought it was dangerous. But it still took weeks to muster up the courage to ask. It was at one of our dinners with Haymitch, instated by Greasy Sae so she wouldn’t have to cook three different meals, that I finally brought it up.

After dishes had been washed and Haymitch had sobered up enough to walk across the way to his house, I pulled Peeta aside. It was by no means the first time we had talked alone since he arrived, after all, we had poured so many hours into our tribute book, but somehow this talk carried more weight than even those conversations. My palms were sweaty, but somehow I managed to get out, “Will you stay tonight?”

“Katniss.” I finally looked up into his eyes, the same ones that had carried me through two Hunger Games and half of a war. “Of course.” 

From there began a slow but steady transition into something like those nights on the train. He would crawl under the covers, place his arms around me, and somehow, we warded past all the worst things night had come to mean to us, the nightmares, the restlessness, the scenes of horror and grief that would play behind our eyelids no matter how tight we squeezed them shut. Peeta’s presence in my bed brought some welcomed familiarity to everything that was unknown about how things worked in the new 12. There were still nights when we would lock eyes over the dinner table, and I could see him slipping away, having to excuse himself from the room, and I knew I would have to brave the night on my own. Though they became less frequent, and in their place came slightly more terrifying yet much shorter episodes where he could stay in the room, gripping the back of a chair and grinding his teeth. It was those I hated the most, because I knew even my presence couldn’t help him. 

We continued this way for a fair while, just sleeping together and trying to hold on to the one thing we managed not to lose through it all. It was nothing romantic until it was; until his hands found their way to my face and his eyebrows raised as if to say, “Is this okay?” and I nodded; until our lips crashed together into something much more than it ever was on any screen, something even I had only caught glimpses of, in a cave with blood dripping down my face, and on a beach with a smooth, hard pearl in between my fingers.

Now I break out of my memories, and try to recollect my thoughts. Oh, yeah. Springtime. Hunting.

I try to walk down the stairs quietly, as to not to disturb Peeta in his morning activities, but I’m surprised to find the kitchen deserted, the door locked, a plate of buns wrapped in clear foil with a note taped to the top the only thing left out of placd. I carefully unwrap the buns, which still carry the faint warmth of the oven, and turn over the note to read.

_Left early for the bakery. Love, Peeta_.  Short and sweet. 

Huh. It’s not odd for him to stop by the bakery for a few hours each day, as he’s considered, at least partly, an owner, but never this early. Something about it unsettles me, because you’d think he would’ve woken me up to say goodbye, but I brush it off and head for the hall closet. I grab my father’s old hunting jacket, a burlap sack, and my old bow. I’ve been sent ads for fancy Capitol models multiple times, from Plutarch no doubt, but they still never seem to work as well as the ones crafted by my father. I shove a couple of the buns into the bag, slip on my hunting boots, and slide out the door. There’s no need for being sneaky anymore, but I automatically slip into my quietest tread and step only through alleyways and backyards.

I make it to the Meadow in no time and stop for a moment to observe the wildflowers. Daisies, primrose, and my fondest dandelions. Yes, spring is definitely here. The air isn’t much warmer than it has been the past few weeks, but it feels fresh, more crisp. I walk farther into the Meadow until I reach the fence. It’s still up, the sections that were torn down replaced, though never electrified, because most people who came back to 12 still aren’t so keen on the animals. But Plutarch had a gate installed just for me, so that’s what I slip through and out into my familiar woods. 

Time passes quickly in the forest. Slowly, I get back my bearings that I lost during the two weeks when it was far too cold to hunt. Now that it’s not necessary to put food on anyone’s plate, I tend to avoid the woods during the coldest part of the winter, unless I absolutely have to get out and move. Even when I do hunt, most of it goes to the butcher, though no one here is starving like they used to be. Peeta and I, of course, have more than enough money between us and a near endless supply of game and bread, and I don’t feel as bad splurging on more expensive things now that everyone in 12 has enough to eat, so we always get on well. We try to make sure we can get to the market at least once a week, if not for us, then for Haymitch.

Well, Peeta gets to the market. I have yet to brave anything past Victor’s Village and my meadow. They’ve surely rebuilt the rest of 12 to be almost what it was, if not grander, since we have Capitol hands on it, but I can’t bring myself to wander into town. Just thinking about it sends a shiver down my spine, considering the last time I saw it in it’s entirety, it was covered in the bones and dust of so many who couldn’t escape before Snow’s bombs destroyed them. Even in the Meadow, I sometimes get caught up on convincing myself I’m not breathing in the ashes of my former neighbors. I have to give Peeta credit, he tries to console me, get me to walk past the fork in the road that leads out of the Victor’s Village, but it’s no use. He never saw 12 after it was destroyed. Never felt his guts twist up in the way that mine did because I was so sure it was my fault so many people were dead.

I hunt for hours, and though I’m slow on my feet at first, I gain control quickly and by early afternoon I’m heading back through the gate with my bag full of game. Nothing clears my mind like a good hunting day. When I reach the house, I’m expecting the warm smell of bread, or cheese buns, or cinnamon rolls, but I’m greeted with nothing. It’s still as empty and quiet as when I left this morning.

I do my post-hunting routine, cleaning and skinning the animals and putting the usable meat in a container for Peeta to take to the butcher’s tomorrow, trying to distract myself from the worried thoughts that can’t help but intrude my brain. I’ve just cleaned everything up and am about to wander to Haymitch’s to see if he has any clue where Peeta might be, when he unlocks the door.

“Katniss.” Peeta slips his shoes off and smiles, his warm smile that he always reserved for me. It almost makes me forget that I’m angry at him. Now I’m glad for my poker face, because he has at least caught on that something’s off. He comes closer, and his smile slips. “What’s wrong?”

“Where were you?” I can feel my face flushing, and though I tried to brush it off throughout the day, it’s evident this hurt me more than I was aware of.

“The bakery. Didn’t you see my n-“ He doesn’t get to finish, because I’ve thrown myself at him. His arms close around me, and I’m struck by how worried I actually was. Of course, I knew he was at the bakery. But not seeing him all day put an unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach, one I have only felt a few times since coming back to 12.

“Katniss, I’m sorry.” He pushes me away, but only to look me in the eye. Of course I forgive him. How could I not, when it’s just now hitting me that this is how he must have felt all those days I shut him out when he first returned, only acknowledging him when necessary. “But I think I have something that might cheer you up.”

“Oh?” I arch my eyebrow.

“Yes. Except I left it back in town.” He’s expecting me to pull away, because he just gets closer. “But you can come get it with me.” He tries another smile, one that’s clearly to convince me to come with him, and though it’s compelling, it doesn’t sway me.

“Peeta.” I bite my lip and look away. I know it’s not fair. Obviously whatever he’s surprising me with is important to him, or he would just get it tomorrow. But I’m not sure how much I can bear walking through those streets again.

“Hey.” His voice is gentle now, echoing the soft hand he places under my jaw. I look back at him, and he gives me a delicate kiss, one that seems too good for this slightly sour moment. “I’m not going to make you, but I really think this is worth it. And I promise, if you start to want to turn back, we’ll go back. No questions asked.” To seal his argument, he kisses me again, though this one is much more convincing than the last.

I pull away, and I can tell he thinks I won’t bite. But I’m not  that  mean. “Alright.”

-

He pulls me into a coat, and since he was gone so long, the sun is just beginning to set, which makes our impending journey feel much more manageable. It’s easier to face things when you can only barely make them out.

The walk isn’t bad, and Peeta is good at keeping me distracted, filling me in on all the newest developments in District 12 and whatever snippets he caught on the TV in the square about the other districts. It’s not forbidden to communicate between districts anymore, but I don’t normally find myself tuning in to the news. You never know what old footage they might dig up to play. 

It’s when we reach the point where the path widens and turns to road that I start having trouble. I can see the square from where we stand, and it brings back bad memories of floggings, beatings, hangings, and other forms of torture the Capitol inflicted upon my district because of my misbehavior at the Games and the Victory Tour. I have to stop, because my brain seems to be short circuiting and my cheek starts to sting. I’m almost convinced that I’m going to have to go back when Peeta points something out to me. Where one of the many whipping posts used to be, a sweet shop has been built. Before the war, sweets were a rarity in 12. The closest most children got to candy were the hard, brown, dried lumps of honey that some of the Hob merchants would have lying around their stalls, or, if they were particularly well off, a small cake from the bakery, decorated with sweet frosting. Now, a handful of children stumble out of the shop giggling, mouths and fingers full of lollipops and other sweets wrapped in colorful foil. A woman follows behind them, who I assume works the shop, and shoos them away, pretending to be irritated. As she rolls her eyes, they catch mine and she throws me a wink. I take a few deep breaths, clutch Peeta’s hand, and keep going.

After a few moments of what seems like aimless wandering, I start to wonder where exactly Peeta is leading me. They’ve completely changed the layout of the town, so I have no clue where we’re headed until I see it. It’s so distinctive, so obviously built with the boy besides me in mind, that I stop in my tracks.

“Oh, Peeta.” My hand moves to my mouth. The bakery. It’s beautiful. I try to conjure up images in my mind of the old place, to compare, and it’s difficult in the vicinity of the new one. What was before cracked wood and broken siding is beautiful brick. They’ve obviously expanded, as even with the apartment that housed Peeta’s family above, the old bakery always felt small and cramped. No, this is not small at all. The new place is elegant and beautiful, but still  so District 12. I’m just taking it all in when I spot the sign above the door. It’s hand-painted, the lettering bold and colorful, adorned with tiny, detailed flowers. I manage to tear my eyes away to meet Peeta’s. “Did you paint that?”

He nods. “What do you think?” It’s obvious how proud he is of it. Now I feel selfish, trying to keep Peeta home with me as much as possible, when it’s obvious he was working so hard here. 

“Peeta. It’s so beautiful.” I turn towards him and kiss him. “It’s so _you_.” And it is. The building reflects the same stability, the same eye for beauty that’s evident in everything Peeta does. I’m floored.

“Come inside.” He doesn’t wait for me to respond, just grabs my hand and pulls me right after him. This is the happiest I’ve seen him in the new 12. It fills me up with warmth and light and something else, something new.

The interior is just as spectacular as the exterior. The scent of baked goods is so strong, it’s like our kitchen tenfold, that it almost knocks me out. There’s a few people behind the counter, but I can only assume they were expecting us, as they hurry off into a back room. The decor is so lovely, and though I’ve never had an eye for that kind of thing, I can tell it would make even our Capitol friends swoon. But it doesn’t feel like a Capitol interior. No, it’s softer, prettier. It feels like home.

“Okay, we’re almost to your surprise.” Peeta’s smile is so wide it kills me. “But you’re going to have to close your eyes and trust me.”

Years ago, this would’ve been impossible for me, but I find myself bending to the boy with the bread’s request. I close my eyes and he covers them with his hands, for good measure. I lean back into him, breathing in this moment, trying to imprint it with all of my senses so as to never forget it, and he leads me into what I presume is another amazing-smelling corner of the bakery.

“Okay, open up.” I open my eyes, and they take a moment to focus. “I redid the cakes.”

This is it. My surprise. I feel my eyes start to prickle and once again my hand is over my mouth. In front of me, in rows that tower above, are all sorts of decorated cakes. They’re breathtaking. I can’t fathom how many hours he must have spent hunched over, tube of frosting in hand, working on the designs. The ones in the window of the old bakery were stunning as well, but those were mainly for holidays, so they were themed as so. These are magical. My eyes take them in one by one. Some are still themed, but others range from flowers to stars to skies. I can’t begin to choose a favorite, until my eyes land on one that sits in the corner. It’s plain compared to some of the treats, but it’s the details that catch me. Primroses stretch up the sides of the cake, an almost perfect replica of the flowers that grow in our garden. This is when the tears start to flow. “Peeta, she would’ve loved these.”

He puts his arms around my shoulders and his head in my hair. “I know. I’m sorry.”

I turn and face him. “No, Peeta, it’s amazing. Thank you.” Suddenly I’m sobbing, because Prim  _would_ have loved them. No matter how much we couldn’t have afforded them, she would never let me walk past the old bakery without stopping with her to admire the cakes in the window. I always let her enjoy the beauty, only too aware of how little of it was available in 12. If only she could see it now, our town where coal dust used to give everything a gray tinge, suddenly so beautiful.

Peeta lets me cry and then cleans me up, asking one of the employees that’s still left to package up the primrose cake. I’m glad for the comfort, because I’m a mess. But I think it’s good, because even a month ago any mention of Prim would send me into a complete shutdown. Maybe I’m forgetting my anger, or maybe I’m just learning to live past it.

-

As we walk home in the dusk, I ask Peeta to tell me something beautiful. He describes the way his paints mix in the palette, swirls of color coming together to make the perfect shade. I’m reminded of the paintings he showed me before our second Games, the ones detailing so many moments from our first. I think about how many hours he must have spent mixing paints until they blended together just right, how many memories he had to relive just to make sure the painting was right. And then he turns the question on me. At first, it’s hard to respond, but after a pause I tell him about the wildflowers in the Meadow, and how even after one of the coldest winters anyone can remember, they still sprouted on the first day of spring.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!!! this is my first fic in over a year so i hope you enjoyed >.< 
> 
> kudos and comments are always very much appreciated!!


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